


Not All We Are

by werebear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Fic of Fic, Grief, HP: EWE, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Incest, M/M, Past Threesome, References To:, Remix, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear/pseuds/werebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Checking It Twice by emmagrant01<br/>A sequel of sorts, in events, but not at all in tone, sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not All We Are

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Checking it Twice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/245844) by [emmagrant01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01). 



It was just a day, an ordinary day. Not a holiday, not Christmas, not some anniversary of a war ending five years ago, or of opening a shop, or of leaving behind bits of swamp and fireworks in a blaze of defiant glory. Not their birthday. Just a day, an autumn Thursday, completely ordinary, but it didn’t make a bloody bit of difference, apparently. You’d think that it would be the big things, George thought as he finished with the till, and spelled the broom to sweep up, flipped the sign on the door to “closed,” and walked upstairs, to their flat, feeling like he’d been hit with the Entrail-Expelling Curse. Like all his fucking organs were just trailing on the floor, writhing and tearing, and there was nothing he could do; he couldn’t even stop stepping on them himself.

Because it was just an ordinary Thursday evening, and how was he supposed to make it stop when it was everywhere, even in the tiniest things: how Fred used to wheedle him into cashing out the till as often as possible, or the time he somehow enchanted a bassoon to play Dukas while he set three dozen brooms to sweeping every inch of floor, knocking into customers; he and Andrea, their Muggleborn assistant at the time, practically fell over laughing.

And it made George smile, thinking of it, and also ripped him open so fiercely that it was a wonder his legs could even carry him to the kitchen. He pulled down a bottle of Ogden’s and a heavy tumbler and took them back into the front room (half filled with boxes and a workbench covered with debris), set them down on the coffee table and sat on the sofa to begin the staring contest. He always lost, eventually, of course, bottles having no eyelids to blink, but he did try to hold out as long as possible.

Tonight, though, the fireplace interrupted him with a flare of green, and then a pair of green eyes, behind round glasses, under a shock of black hair. “George?”

George raised a hand, not encouragingly, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to try to fend Harry off with a smile and a false front. Not tonight.

Harry was never easy to fend anyway. If it were Mum or Ginny, Lee or Ron, or even Percy, George could usually use the troubled look in their eyes to fuel some small talk, some witty repartee (it’d deserted him of late—it’s so hard to banter alone), some reassurances of “I’m fine, thanks.” Sometimes he could even muster up the energy to tell Mum not to push him about dating Angelina, that he’d think about it. Or that, sure, he’d get out and see his friends more often soon. Even though lately, he wasn’t sure he knew what being friends really meant anymore.

But Harry never got that troubled look. Harry just blinked at him, like tonight, and said, “Good, you’re home. I’ve got curry.” And came right on through, shaking soot out of his hair, holding a plastic bag with take-away cartons. He set them on the coffee table and said, “I’ll fetch some proper forks,” returning after a minute with utensils and another glass.

George budged over a bit on the sofa, and Harry collapsed next to him, flipping open the cartons and handing one over. George would have said he had no appetite, but the rice and garlic-onion-chili-turmeric smell was winning over his stomach in spite of himself, so he didn’t bother to protest this time. They ate in silence for a while.

Finally Harry looked at him and asked, “Any better?”

George stared into his carton and sighed. “Yeah, a bit.” Food did help him feel better, less hollow in all ways. And that was part of the problem—sometimes it made him angry. Eating, washing, sleeping properly—he felt better but it didn’t actually _make_ things better. It didn’t change anything.

Harry nodded and licked his fork, pushing his food away and leaning back, settling in, eyes closed. George wished he would pour them a drink, but Harry never, ever did. If he wanted alcohol, George had to start it himself.

Same with talking. Ron and Hermione, or Angelina, always encouraged him to talk about it when he had a day like this. Which was fine—sometimes. Sometimes he didn’t want to say anything. Sometimes he wanted someone to ask him. Harry never did, though if George wanted to bring something up, he would always listen. But George had to begin things. Just like with the drinking.

He picked up the bottle. Just one, he told himself sternly. He didn’t want to get drunk—not with Harry here. Some part of him thought that wasn’t a smart idea. He poured a couple of inches for each of them. Harry took his almost without cracking open his eyes, and drank at least half in one go.

“How’s work?” George asked at last, breaking the silence and the sound of the fire. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, but didn’t sip any yet. Still part of the staring contest. “Attending to all the things that need Auroring?”

Harry grunted and sat up. “S’fine, I suppose.” He drank a little more, and winced. “I think….”

“What?”

Harry shrugged. “I think I might need a change.”

“A change?”

“Like, do something else. At least for a while.”

George gaped at him. Ever since he could remember, Harry and Ron had talked about being Aurors together. He looked suspiciously at the glass in Harry’s hand. “Are you drunk?”

“No!” He seemed to consider. “Maybe a bit? A very little bit.” He took another swallow, winced again. “I don’t drink Firewhiskey much anymore,” he admitted.

“Lightweight,” George said, with affection, and took his first mouthful. He forced himself to sip it, through the burn.

“Always have been, really.”

George thought about it. “Guess I never did see you tipsy much in school.”

Laughing, Harry said, “Not hardly. Usually too busy with mortal peril and all.”

George grinned and shook his head. “Your school adventures were just a whole different level than most, I reckon.”

A pause, and then Harry said, “Yeah, school adventures.” He glanced at him sidelong. “Like the time you two wanted to borrow my cloak fifth year.”

George coughed, spluttered, managed not to spit out the whiskey in his mouth.

Harry’s cheeks were very red, but he said, “So you do remember.”

George didn’t look at him. “’Course. We weren’t drunk that night. Either.”

He couldn’t look up. He felt—he didn’t know what he felt. He didn’t know how he’d feel right now if… if Fred were still here. Probably differently. He and Fred had argued plenty, just the two of them, but to the outside, to anyone else, they had always been a united front. Always. He tried not to think about how easy it had been, that way.

“Later I heard…. Was it… it wasn’t just me, was it?” Harry’s voice was hesitant, but more than that, George couldn’t tell.

“Um.” George considered for a moment. “No. It wasn’t.” He paused a moment, then decided, the hell with it. “We had a list.”

Harry stared at him. “A list?”

George nodded.

“A _list?”_

George nodded again. He couldn’t really blame Harry if he was angry. It had been… stupid, thoughtless. Part of him was shocked, now. Mostly he couldn’t be arsed, though. And he wouldn’t regret, _couldn’t_ regret any of the things he’d ever done with Fred. (Fred never regretted anything.) Even if maybe he should. He _was_ a bit sorry, if Harry was, though. They’d always liked Harry. _He’d_ always liked Harry. A bit too much, even? He hadn’t really been jealous of Fred that evening, getting to have Harry’s hand on him….

They’d had their list (Fred called it The O List), but much of it they’d checked off via spying. Not as much hands-on as you’d think, a fact that Fred had bemoaned, but that had secretly left George feeling just a little relieved. Partly because… that time, the time with Harry, that had been... George had never quite stopped thinking about it. Thinking of Fred’s arm around Harry’s chest, his mouth against Harry’s ear, saying something _(saying what?)_ ; Harry’s head back against Fred’s shoulder, his hand clenching and rubbing between Fred’s legs; and George himself, on his knees in front of both of them, Harry’s cock on his tongue (and that had been good, he’d never even tried to lie to himself about that), Fred’s lips on Harry’s neck, Harry’s fingers brushing so softly against George’s hair for a moment just before he came—and the look on his _face,_ on both their faces then ( _is that what I look like too?_ George had wondered, staring at Fred)—it was almost like….

He and Fred had got up to a lot, a lot of pranks, a lot of trouble, a lot of kinky shite over the years, but they’d never fucked each other. Fred had laughed and dismissed the idea as “too weird, even for us.” And George hadn’t wanted to, not really.

But every now and then he would remember that feeling, remember their faces and how somehow it felt like he was touching Fred through Harry, but also without leaving Harry out at all. It was still confusing, and it didn’t help that Harry had always been Ron’s best mate, that he had been dating Ginny till they'd broken up two and a half years ago _(that long already?),_ that he spent Christmases at the Burrow and came to help with stocking at the shop on busy weekends. That he Flooed in at times, like now, brought dinner, or just sat and talked or played Exploding Snap, for what seemed like no reason at all.

And suddenly _(why tonight?)_ wanted to bring up their freaky past.

But Harry wasn’t angry. He was laughing: his shoulders, not so scrawny now, were shaking with it. “A _list,”_ he finally managed. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but….”

George grinned a little, gulped at his drink. “You sound relieved.”

“A bit.” Harry shook his head, and his smile was sheepish. “I’m glad it wasn’t….”

“What?”

Now Harry was blushing, but he answered, in a half-mutter. “I’m glad it wasn’t just… because of this or something.” He touched his forehead. His scar.

George gaped at him. He wanted to laugh, or tease him about his obviously overlarge ego, but Harry looked so embarrassed already—and the way his shoulders were hunched in just a bit too much…. “Don’t be thick. ‘Course it wasn’t.” He kept his tone offhand.

Harry grinned, and it was so full of relief that George could feel his own shoulders relaxing, mirroring Harry’s. Still do that too much, he told himself. Mirroring. Too much.

But Harry was still talking, with amusement and a bit too much relief in his voice, the kind of relief that makes you say too much, sure as Firewhiskey. “Good, good, always nice to know your first time isn’t because of some stupid celebrity-thing.”

First time? Now it was George’s turn for shock. _First time?_ He had never thought—he’d always assumed—and now he did feel badly, falling for the surely-famous-Harry-Potter-has-had-sex-before attitude. He swallowed hard, and said, without quite meaning to, “Some stupid prank-thing is better?”

Harry looked up at him, his head cocked a bit to one side. “When it’s you two, yeah. I mean—” he gestured to the shop below them. “It’s just who you are.”

George said nothing. It was completely true, and maybe a little not, and he still didn’t know what to do about that. ( _And it doesn’t mean it was okay,_ said a tiny voice, which he pushed away as quickly as it came.)

Harry shrugged and rolled his glass in his hands. “There’ve been plenty of others since then where it _was_ just… a stupid celebrity-thing.” He jerked his head back, draining the glass. “Trust me. The other is better.”

George didn’t mean to say it, but he couldn’t help it. “Harry—”

Harry shook his head vehemently, set the tumbler down on the coffee table. “I _must_ be drunk, I don’t know why I….” He shifted as if to stand.

George’s hand snaked out, without any volition on his part; he watched it grab the cuff of Harry’s jumper. “Are you really?” He was looking at the jumper, not Harry’s face: it was one Mum had knitted, dark green, soft and thick. “Drunk?”

“No.” Harry’s voice was very quiet.

George considered that he might be lying. But it had only been the one glass. His fingers didn’t release Harry’s sleeve, even when Harry sat back again.

“Sorry,” said Harry after a while. “It was a long time ago. You probably don’t even—”

“I do,” George cut him off. Just a few hours ago he would’ve scoffed at the idea, would have denied thinking about it that often, but right now… he remembered his hand under Harry’s shirt, the bump of his ribs, the warm skin. He remembered catching Fred’s eye across Harry’s head, the gleeful gleam in it; remembered the feeling of _together_ as they made Harry gasp and shiver. He remembered the small, tight sounds Harry made as George sucked him, and the muffled one against Fred’s hand when he came. Even the taste of him… and he remembered wishing for a moment, after, that they didn’t have to pretend it never happened, even if that was the rule they’d made; his idea just as much as Fred’s, like most things….

“I remember thinking after,” Harry said, still softly, almost thoughtfully, “I remember wondering if anyone was going to kiss me. It seemed sort of… odd, or important or something. That no one had.”

George’s throat made a sound. He didn’t mean for it to, but it did. It sounded thick and a little broken. “Harry,” he said, and his voice sounded broken too. He made himself keep his eyes open, looking into Harry’s. “Harry, I’m so—I’m sorry.”

Then he closed his eyes, breath catching, and thought, _sorry, Fred._

“Hey,” said Harry, still softly, “we were kids. We were all kids.”

“What we—what _I_ —that doesn’t make it okay.” George couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t raise his voice above a whisper suddenly. His stomach, his throat—everything felt like it was melting, gritty and unpleasant, running out of him, leaving him again.

“No. Maybe not.” Harry touched George’s head, and then ran his hand down onto his face. The left side, and Harry’s fingers pushed softly through his hair and touched the scars where his ear had been, without hurry, without hesitation. “But it’s not all we are, either.” The gentle pressure of fingertips on the thick scar tissue felt odd, removed from normal touch and feeling. “Or all we were.”

Eyes still closed, George felt like he could hardly breathe, and hardly understand. Just because he’d done what he ought, for once, and been unlucky… it didn’t mean he deserved… his scars itched faintly. He shook his head a little, but Harry’s hand didn’t withdraw. He said, very quietly, “It… it doesn’t make things better. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Oh.” Harry’s voice was raspy, and something in it made George look up. “Oh hell, Georgie.”

Harry’s fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, and he pulled his face close and kissed his mouth.

It was a bit of an awkward angle, and George was so surprised, he could hardly respond at first. He didn’t know… he hadn’t kissed someone like this, not someone he cared about, not since… the end of the war. He’d sort of forgotten how odd kissing was, the theory of it: sucking on somebody else’s lips. Such a strange thing to want to do. Harry kissed him, not with desperation or passion, but with determination, and insistence, and maybe a little urgency. More comforting than heated. His lips were soft and warm—he tasted like lamb curry and whiskey—and finally George leaned into it and sighed. His chest loosened slightly, as if he were melting, and this time was far more pleasant than a few minutes before. Suddenly, he wanted to raise a hand, to touch Harry’s face, but he didn’t think he dared. He felt… as if it were only he and Harry, alone in the world.

_Alone._

He faltered and pulled back, letting his chin fall to his chest. Avoiding Harry’s eyes. He would have drawn away, but Harry’s hand was still firmly around the back of his head, pulling on him. George let him draw him closer, across the space between them, where he pushed the bridge of his nose into Harry’s shoulder and tried to breathe. He could feel Harry’s nose, his face turned to press into his ginger hair.

Tears were squeezing out of his eyes, wetting the slightly scratchy wool. _Fred would laugh at me,_ he thought, reflexively. Then, slower: _maybe._ Suddenly, disconcertingly, he knew: that he didn’t know what Fred would do, what he would say. Maybe he would be sorry, too.

He took a hitching breath and looked up. Harry’s eyes, outrageously green as ever, looked at him steadily.

“Not all we are?” he asked, though his voice was raspy too.

Harry shook his head.

“So what are we?” George looked down and realized he was still clutching Harry’s sleeve.

“We’re friends,” Harry said, without the slightest hesitation. Then he smiled, a little uncertainly. “We’re… family.”

George nodded, tightened his hand on the green wool. _I can start there,_ he thought.

 


End file.
